Chapter 11
I knew that face.
Mrs. McElhaney had drawn a very becoming sketch. One nice enough to give to him as a gift. It couldn’t be him. It just couldn’t. I cleared my throat and asked her a question that would confirm or alleviate my fears. “What color is his hair?”
“Very faint blond, almost verging on white. You look shocked. Do you recognize him?” she asked.
Why couldn’t she have said he had black hair? Or red, or brown? There was simply no mistaking him. It was my old friend Humphrey Brown.
Old friend didn’t describe our relationship properly. He had gone to grade school and high school with Natasha and me. All that time, Humphrey had a childhood crush on me. Absorbed in my own childhood angst, I barely even noticed him. A few years ago, after my divorce, my mom took it upon herself to see that I remarried. To that end, she invited Humphrey to my house for Thanksgiving dinner. That celebration had been a nightmare from beginning to end with Wolf present and Mars carted off to the hospital after being poisoned.
In the beginning, Humphrey hoped to rekindle something that never existed. When he persisted, I tried to let him down gently and we eventually became friends.
Humphrey’s most distinctive features were his pale hair and gaunt physique. Totally inept with women in a helpless sort of way, it didn’t help that he was a mortician. His lack of confidence sometimes resulted in humorous behavior, but he certainly wasn’t a killer.
I forced myself to admit that I knew him. “Your sketch is perfect,” I said. “You must have seen him often.”
“I don’t like to gossip but I did see him on occasion. He slipped away early in the morning, mostly before dawn. If I hadn’t been an early riser, I wouldn’t have known that he visited Lark. What’s his name?” she asked.
“Humphrey Brown,” I replied.
“Humphrey. People don’t name children Humphrey anymore, do they? I like that name. It conjures up a figure of authority for me. A distinguished, confident gentleman. Is he nice?”
“Very. I have trouble imagining that he killed her. To tell the truth, it’s equally difficult to think that Lark and Humphrey were an item!”
“Lark was always very discreet. Her children are as bossy as mine. I don’t know why they think they have to run our lives when we lose our husbands.”
“Maybe they’re being protective. They probably mean well.”
“We don’t lose our sensibility or judgment.” A wan smile appeared on her face. “If I were engaged in a relationship with a gentleman, I don’t believe I would tell my children, either. They’d probably try to run him off. Oh!” Her cheeks blazed. “What a fuss they would make!”
I tried to bring her back to Humphrey. “When you saw him on Monday morning, did he look upset or rushed?”
Mrs. McElhaney tilted her head and thought about it. “No. Not at all. If anything, he appeared shocked.”
Was that worse than nervous or hurried? Would the police think he was regretful now that Lark was dead? Or had he seen her dead body after someone else killed her? “What time was it when you saw him?”
“Quite early. Five thirty, maybe. I had left my favorite trowel in the front planter and was retrieving it when I saw him.”
“Did he leave through the side yard and the gate or by the front door?”
“I really don’t know. I wasn’t spying on them! And a lot of the tents were up, blocking my view.”
“You’re certain it was him?”
“Yes. He walked quite close to me.”
“But he wasn’t running?” I asked hopefully.
“Not at all. He was dressed quite nicely as though he was off to work. What does he do?”
“He works for a local mortuary.”
She started in surprise. “I wouldn’t have imagined that. An accountant or bookkeeper, I thought.”
I finished my coffee. “I think I’d better go have a talk with Humphrey.”
“I hope I didn’t get him in trouble. Unless he killed Lark, of course.”
In trouble? “Have you shared this sketch with the police?” I asked.
“Yes. That nice Detective Fleishman was very impressed and said they ought to hire me as a police artist to draw sketches for people who can remember the face of a criminal but can’t draw.”
She was as sweet and hospitable as a person could be and yet my blood ran cold. Wolf knew Humphrey. He would have recognized him immediately.
I thanked her again and tried not to appear to be running out the door. But when we were outside, the dogs and I walked home as fast as we could.
I barged into the kitchen and found Mars, Bernie, and Nina at the banquette. The aromas of bacon and coffee hung in the air. A platter of breakfast breads sat on the table. I said good morning and headed straight for the telephone.
“Where have you been?” asked Mars. “We were worried about you.”
“I’ll explain.” I dialed Humphrey’s number. “Please be there, please be there,” I muttered.
Nina got up and darted toward me.
When Humphrey’s answering machine came on, I panicked. He could be at work, I reasoned. I hoped the police hadn’t taken him in for questioning. I dialed Wolf’s cell phone, but Nina flicked her finger out and hit the plunger switch, disconnecting the call.
“Who are you calling?” she asked, a deep furrow in her brow.
“Wolf.”
Behind her, at the island, Bernie said calmly in his British accent that made him sound very clever, “I don’t think you want to do that.”
I hung up the phone. “What’s going on?”
Mars handed me a mug of English breakfast tea and a slice of bacon.
“Is this supposed to make me feel better? Because it didn’t work. Now I’m highly suspicious.”
Nina gasped and stared out the bay window. “Wolf just pulled up outside!”
“Oh good. I wanted to talk with him,” I said. “But you so rudely disconnected my call.”
At that exact moment, something crashed in the living room. I quickly inventoried the animals. Two dogs, one cat. “What was that?” I asked them.
I set down my mug and dashed into the living room, still clutching the slice of bacon. Nina was on my heels.